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 Her whole life has felt beyond her control. 

A continuous chain of losses and uncertainty. She did what she had to do to keep moving forward and find answers.

Like she's doing now.

And she misses her target. Again. Even with focusing so intensely with her powers after the fifth try.

She misses it. That feeling of being in complete control. Even if it was a trick of the mind, a manipulation, she felt so certain about everything.

No one understands.  Not really.  She lets her head drop to the floor, too hard, and winces.

Back to practicing control, instead of having it, resentful for being promised the impossible. Frustrated that this doesn't work.  When it came so easily before, when she was part of the Hive.

When everything else has come so hard, and at too high a price.

“How's it coming?”

He interrupts her in the simulation she's designed, and she gets up off her spot on the floor, replies briefly, unafraid to let him see this side of her.

“It's coming,” she exhales, wound tight, and checks her pulse rate.

She knows it will help make them all feel safer if she practices control.  She has to make this right again.

“I'm sure you've got this down by now,” he says, observing the setup with the dummies and the table and chairs, his voice so even and calm.  “How about a break?”

“Okay,” she concedes, putting her hands on her hips. 

Phil has plenty of control. He always has.  And that’s kind of annoying.

“Okay what?”

She shrugs, then wipes her face against the sweatshirt balancing precariously on her shoulder. “It was your idea. Were you expecting me to say no?”

“No,” he answers, as his brows draw together in what either looks like confusion or concern.

“Right,” she shakes her head and looks down, resets the pulse counter she’s wearing to go again.

“Have you eaten?” he throws out quickly.

“No. You?”


He’s looking at her cautiously, but at least it feels like they’ve agreed on something.



He just can't seem to relax, and all this, after making the point it’s what she needed.

He's holding onto something, too. Guilt she suspects.

This doesn't come to him so naturally, without the SHIELD talk as some basis for comparison. He even seemed a little thrown off when she turned down the grilled cheese.

“Let's see what else you've got, Phil.”

Then, he embraced it, and she's starting to worry that he likes the idea of this. Making him prove something to her. It's not what she wants. She'd just prefer them to be on the same page.

“It's not your fault, you know,” she says watching him stir the sauce around the pan, as she leans closer over the counter to look inside.

He frowns, and she knows he doesn't want to talk about it.

“It's not anyone's fault,” she adds anyway.

He sets down the spoon on the oven mitt, and tries to twist open a jar of capers to add to the sauce. She can read the tiny, frustrated look as he switches to his prosthetic and then turns it. Too hard.

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to get his hold back, and it spills out towards her.  Backing away as he almost catches it, then it slips again and he drops it on the stove top, sending hot liquid and steam sputtering out into the air.

“Let me help,” she offers, moving forward as he grabs the pan out of the way, and then lets go with a clanging noise.

His hand pulls back, clenching his teeth as he stares at the red spot on his fingers, shaking them, trying to keep from cursing some more.

She reaches out for his hand to turn it over, and look at the burn.  At first she thinks he’s going to ask her to stop, judging by the frightened expression on his face.

Instead he slows down, trying to draw more even breaths, watching her turn off the stove with one hand and use her powers to gently push the pan off the heat with the other.

“It’s not too bad,” she tells him, then runs her fingertips lightly over his palm.

His shoulders jerk a little at her touch, accompanied by a short gasp.

“You should stick with grilled cheese, Phil,” she teases him.

He gives her a weak smile, the corner of his mouth just pulling up.

“There’s always leftover pizza.”



She doesn’t know how to ask for this, without seeming like a creep.

Are you allowed to tell the Director of SHIELD that you want to see him lose control?

They’re eating the rest of what’s in the bottom of the team ice cream with a spoon now that they managed to reheat the pizza safely.

He would trust her now, she thinks, to let her see him like that.

What if he doesn’t know how to ask, in the same way she can’t explain why she needs to be in control more than ever?

“Do you miss it?” he asks, after taking a mouthful. “Getting to use your powers like that?”

Big, is what he means. Big in the way the Kree intended for her to use them.

He does understand, perhaps. At least, he's trying to instead of offering her pity, or worse, fear.

“I miss having control over them. And now it feels all in doubt,” she says, going for the last bit of ice cream. “It unlocked something in my head, and I can't get it back.”

“Have you tried-“

“No!” She quickly meets his eyes. “No. I''s dangerous.”

“You're not dangerous.”

“How can you be so sure?  After everything that’s happened-”

“I just…am?” He sighs, knowing it’s not enough, then twists to drop his spoon into the sink.

“It’s a nice thought, anyway,” she says, doing the same, as he looks again at the red mark on his hand, as if he regrets.

She takes his hand again, after a brief moment of doubt, as he watches, then releases some light vibrations into his palm, like she’s done to herself after a hard workout, or a really tense day.

His eyes flutter at the sensation, and she can see his prosthetic flex against the edge of the counter, like he’s anchoring himself.

“Feel better?” she asks, trying to not seem too curious at his reaction.

“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes, and nodding.

She finds that she does, too.  And it turns out, she doesn’t have to ask.

As they’re about to part ways down the hall to go to their rooms for the night, she gives him a slow smile, but doesn’t say a word, when he wraps his fingers around her arm to stop her in her tracks.

She looks at his hand first, a little surprised at the gesture, but then she meets his eyes and she just knows. They’re on the same page.

He lets go of her, and tries to find a place on his body to rest his hands, then gives up and looks down both ends of the hall.

“My room’s closer,” he tells her. “I mean, that’s if-“

“Your room is probably bigger, anyway,” she smirks, and walks past him. He only hesitates for a moment and then comes along beside her.

“I’m afraid to lose control,” he admits, as their shoulders touch.

“I’m pretty familiar,” she teases, bumping against him deliberately.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, when they stop in front of his door.  “For that.”

“Apology not accepted,” she tells him, leaning against the frame, as he swipes his lanyard along the door.

He eyes her with a hint of defiance on his face, then he pushes the door open and holds it for her.

“After you.”



They kiss each other very carefully, at first. As though they might break something.

They're both nervous, but then she remembers the point of this, and tells him to stop.

Their next attempt is better, more embracing, although she's starting to wonder if this was only going to work as an idea, that they’re both still too afraid to hurt each other.

Then she reminds herself this is about her, too. What she wants.

What they both want.

She maneuvers him into the wall, trapping his body against her, and she worries that it’s too much when he tenses up, and she pulls back to find him mirroring her, wanting to chase after her mouth.

The next kiss is harder, definitely more intense as she pins him against the wall, by his shoulders, feeling his hands want to touch her, but her holding him in place, so that he’s having to put everything into his kiss instead.

She wants him to touch her. Not yet, and she slides her knee up between his thighs until she can feel her leg pressing against his very obvious erection through his jeans.

He tears his mouth away from hers and curses, as she slides her lips and along his exposed neck. He only gets louder, more vocal.

She pushes away from him and takes a few steps backward, and he practically stumbles to reach for her, grabbing her by the hips to draw her up against him again, and smashes his mouth against hers so hard and wantonly that she’s almost light-headed when she comes up for air.

His hands find their way up the small of her back up under her sweatshirt, and she’s perfectly willing to toss it off, but then she kisses him again, sucks at his bottom lip, and puts her hands on his chest between them.

“I want to undress you.”

He looks nervous again, but he nods, then swallows, and watches her fingers work on the buttons of his shirt.

“I’ve never done this before,” she says, a bit shyly, fumbling with one of the buttons.

“You’re doing good,” he answers, and she meets his eyes for a moment; sees his kindness, and his trust.

She wants to kiss him again, but not just yet.

The shirt is open, and she slips it off his shoulders, and down his arms, and watches him shiver when her hands go under his t-shirt, and she helps him to pull it over his head.

She’s never seen his scar before, and he glances away from her once her eyes are on it. It gives her the most strangely gratifying feeling, that he would share himself with her like this.

“Thank you,” she tells him, sliding her hand along his scar, guiding his face back to hers with the other.  “You’re doing good, Phil.”

His eyes light up when she says his name, and he puts his hand over hers, right where it rests on his scar and she feels herself blushing at his gaze.

“Can you do the rest for me?”

Stepping back to sit on the edge of his bed, she watches him toe off his shoes, then undo his belt, draw down the zipper, sliding his hands inside his briefs as he bends to slip them down along with his jeans.

She puts her fingers to her mouth, and bites down on the edge of her thumb nail, at the thought that she has the Director of SHIELD in front of her in nothing but a pair of socks.

“The socks have to go, too,” she teases, pressing her knees together.

And this is what Phil Coulson looks like beneath those suits.  She was always curious.  Not so bad.

“What now?” he asks, after he’s discarded the socks.

“Come here,” she tells him.  He walks towards her and she tells him to get closer, and closer again, until she has her hand around his cock, stroking him.

He curses again, and then stands up on his toes when he feels the vibrations travel through his body, balancing a hand on her shoulder to keep upright.


It slips out, too late, as he rests back down on his heels.

“Daisy. Dammit.”

He groans loudly and screws his eyes shut tight when she uses her powers on him once more.

“I’m not going to last.”

“Good,” she says, caressing his hip with her other hand, drawing the line where it dips in.

“I don’t want you to.”



He brushes his fingers over her back in broad strokes, tracing along her spine from her neck to her tailbone, the softness and the warmth of her almost overwhelming him.

Thankfully, she’d let him return the favor, or he’d have been pretty devastated. He made sure to tell her to get exactly what she wanted. Everything.

Very explicit orders, he thinks, smiling as his mouth follows the trail his hand took, in a series of kisses dotted along her skin.

She’s stirs a little next to him, tired from using her powers, with her face buried in one of his pillows.

He feels almost weightless. Like he's floating. It could just be that euphoric feeling you get after making love, or-

“Daisy, are you using your powers?” he realizes, delighted at the idea.

“I don't know?” She turns over, looking at him sleepily, starting to grin as his eyes take in the sight of her like he’s savoring every moment.  

Then she reaches to draw her finger over the curve of his ear, as he squirms a bit. To caress his contented face.

And they’re like a mirror.

“Good,” he answers, smiling some more.

He leans down and kisses her. Softly.